


A French Curio Box

by Blacksquirrel



Category: Le Pacte des Loups | Brotherhood of the Wolf (2001)
Genre: 18th Century, Chromatic Yuletide 2012, Colonialism, Established Relationship, Exoticization, Interracial Relationship, Light BDSM, M/M, POV Character of Color, Paris (City), Racism, Winter Solstice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 19:28:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blacksquirrel/pseuds/Blacksquirrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the Solstice approaches, Mani reflects on his new life in France.  Fronsac reminds him that although many things change, that which is most important remains constant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A French Curio Box

**Author's Note:**

  * For [haipollai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/haipollai/gifts).



> Many thanks to my betas Kitsune13 and Marieamisu, who caught several potentially embarrassing synonym errors and anachronisms.
> 
> For a movie about evil incestuous arms, exploding anachronistic pumpkins, and Papal spies posing as prostitutes, I love that Brotherhood of the Wolf also engages with so many of the important themes of the 18th century - orientalism, colonialism, the enlightenment, court politics, and somehow through it all the possibility of recognition and solidarity.

**A French Curio Box**

**Paris Teasingly Displays its Treasures**

Sometimes, contemplating Fronsac’s trunks of clippings and samples, Mani imagined the specimens he would have collected from France to show his people this strange new life, had they survived.

When he walked through the palace grounds as Fronsac supervised the planting of his New France seeds, Mani paused to crouch beside a little flower stubbornly growing wild in the ditch. Tracing his fingers across its feathery petals, he mused over the ironic transposition which would make this little wildflower as valuable as Fronsac’s plantings if pressed and presented to a distant people as an emblem of France.

As Fronsac entertained a drawing room of ladies with his books of wildlife illustrations, Mani’s gaze traced the silhouette of their unnatural curves and considered how a lock of hair from the wig of a beautiful woman would document the strange ugliness in their arts of beauty.

Despite Fronsac’s assurance of the man’s kindness, patronage, and friendship, when invited to the King’s receiving room as part of the official presentation of Fronsac’s research, Mani required a distraction to suppress his dangerous disdain for the man whose petty whims wreaked such destruction in his land. Thus instead of shouting or lashing out, Mani plotted the ease with which a snipping of the chair of state might be secreted away. Presenting the stolen piece of rich tapestry as a boon to his people would show them the wealth and power of this distant monarch, but the cunning capture would also reveal the myth and fragility of his omnipotence.

Fronsac appeared surprised when Mani asked to attend a mass dedicated to a god neither of them believed in, but assented nonetheless. He took Mani to a Sunday service at Notre Dame, which he explained had at least its beauty, history, and architectural accomplishments to recommend it. While Fronsac pointed out the mathematical perfection of flying buttresses and Gothic arches, Mani made a study of the priests’ separation from their congregants and their language, of the exalted position of the patrons, and of the synchronized rituals of supplication. Had he paper he would have taken a rubbing of the cold stone statues which lined the room and of the names and faces on the vaults underfoot, which testified respectively to the life and death of Paris’s most powerful.

Yet, it was clear to him that Fronsac himself would be the jewel of his collection of French artifacts. At another tensely political dinner party, he watched the candlelight play across the plush curves of Fronsac’s teasing lips when he deftly wove the social lies demanded of every such occasion. He watched as Fronsac smirked, pouted, and flirted his way into the good graces of their host and his daughter in turns, deftly playing the arrogance of the father against the impetuousness of the lady; Mani envisioned his sly smiles on display in different circumstances, under the scrutiny of crowds of people in his far away home, pressed against one another in their eagerness to see a French exotic displayed for their pleasure. Mani would strip away the cool rivers of silk ribbons and thick brocade to expose the creamy planes of torso beneath. He would weave black ribbons through Fronsac’s hair to emphasize its golden glow, and rub coal around his eyes to draw every look toward their piercingly icy depths. He would rub sweet oils into the muscles Fronsac hid from Parisian society and reveal the strength and skill secreted behind Fronsac’s public face.

In Paris, everywhere he turned Mani felt himself to be on display, so he imagined a world wherein he became the collector. In that daydream everyone would come to catch a glimpse of Fronsac's captive beauty, and everyone would know that Fronsac belonged to him.

 

**Paris is Both Full and Empty**

Cold rain pounded against the window as Mani stood alone, staring into the dreary street, remembering nights spent under another sky. He knew that by this time of year snow would blanket his home, and he had spent many winters chasing the spirit through the woods’ chill embrace. While he passed many bountiful summers divining his people’s paths, healing their ills, and basking in companionship and plenty, he always relished his solitary winter trek back into the forest. He believed that no greater peace existed than that which could be found on the longest night of the year by looking up between the endless trees into the vast silence of the moon and stars.

Fronsac’s city and Fronsac’s people kept to other traditions, tempos, and ways of life. In Paris true solitude remained ever illusory. Now, closing his eyes and bringing to mind the solitary stillness of winters past, the constant bustle of Fronsac's household jangled against his quiet memories. Even at this late hour servants still toiled in the kitchen, cellar, and carriage house. Neither he nor the butler would likely ever forget the night that he awoke in the early hours to get some air, and nearly visited serious harm upon the servant who appeared to offer his assistance with nearly inhuman stealth and speed. France might have prevailed had such men entered the army rather than the domestic services and Mani shook off the sudden awareness of the spirit’s mysterious workings which delivered them from such a fate; yet every subsequent night he found rest elusive as the heavy awareness of a hovering, watchful presence remained always at the edge of his consciousness.

Much of the time Paris seemed to press in upon him, filling up his senses with shouts, music, smoke, and filth. Racket overflowed his ears, nose, and skin, turning his carefully honed instincts against him, and in the crowds of the street which stared, beckoned, touched, and tugged at him, he could not distinguish thief from nobleman, beggar from brute, friend from foe.

Thus here he stood while elsewhere Fronsac dined and danced. Together, they did not lack for invitations as many in Fronsac’s circle desired a closer inspection of his new _sauvage_ , and those who did not easily fell prey to Fronsac’s flattery and wine cellar, or on rare occasions a carefully veiled threat in the shape of an anecdote about his last conversation with the King regarding the monarch's ever expanding love of horticulture. Often Mani amused himself on such occasions by reading false futures for public acquaintances he knew Fronsac held in private contempt, or announcing horribly mismatched totem animals, as when he proclaimed to last week’s assembly that within his deep, true self, the visiting Arch Bishop was actually a groundhog. Of course, only Fronsac really understood the insult, and he met his eyes with the secret smile and wink that Mani had hoped to elicit. Those who endlessly stared at him and absently touched or petted him while asking Fronsac about his origins were more troublesome and difficult to thwart. The inability to recognize and respect a thinking, feeling spirit could be forgiven in children, but Mani could never understand how the adults of Fronsac’s people could retain such foolish naiveté; their ridiculous and reckless insistence upon treating a seasoned warrior who knew their language and ways as though he were deaf, mute, and empty-headed allowed the surreptitious collection of many secrets, and he passed them on with some satisfaction to Fronsac, in whose skilled hands they became the fearsome weapons with which court politics may be won.

Yet often he grew weary of the dance, of the dagger behind every simpering fan, of the deceit behind every bow and pleasantry, and of their own deception most of all, which meant they could not touch, even in the presence of those Fronsac called friend - and meant it. Somewhere in the swirl of silks and brocades which filled the drawing rooms of their afternoons and ballrooms of their evenings Fronsac assured him there were true friends, honest and dependable people, but Mani could not discern them. For, without Fronsac, he knew there would be no invitations for himself - no teas and balls, no walks through the park or trips to the country. Without Fronsac, there was no society, no friend, no place for him. They had never truly quarreled, but sometimes he looked at Fronsac and trembled at the thought of it. His people were gone, and even among the thronging bustle and masses of Paris, without Fronsac the city would be utterly empty.

Watching Fronsac weave dreams of their lost continent for sweet young society ladies and influential politicians alike reminded Mani of how fragile and delicate their bond had become, of how his grip on the world would forever fray should they become untethered. His connection to Fronsac had never seemed more tenuous, even at the very beginning when the chaos of war should have made their union impossible. Yet perversely here, among peace and abundance, the depths of their commitment remained silent; even when Fronsac stridently voiced it, every ear closed, every eye remained downcast, every face turned away.

Thus tonight, and increasingly many nights, Mani remained at home while Fronsac responded to calls and invitations, cultivating connections and maintaining his position. Here, at least, there was no expectant audience performing a pantomime of civility, and here he could welcome in the bite of fear which plagued him in town. He pressed his cheek against the window pane, feeling the impact of rain pounding away outside and welcoming in the cold. He closed his eyes and tried to transport himself to another place and another time when the cold tranquility of solitude brought nothing but lightness to his spirit; yet here, in the house which was at once noisy and still, the city which was both empty and full, the thick silence only sank its damp grip further inside of him to clench ever tighter at his heart.

 

**Paris Flaunts a Showy Spectacle in the Day, But Draws Out True Intimacies by Candlelight**

Warm hands settling on his hips lifted Mani from his contemplation as Fronsac’s chin came to rest on his shoulder. He smiled because no sound or change in the air had signaled Fronsac’s return; Fronsac kept to his teachings well, even now that their skills appeared so useless on a battlefield armed with subtle gestures and shifting alliances.

“Did you have a good time?” Mani offered, placing his hand over Fronsac’s. “Did they laugh at the furred fish, or were they upset after being fooled?”

Fronsac chuckled and his breath warmed Mani’s ear. “Paris is full of fools and they all dance for us,” he murmured. Tightening his grip slightly he began to sway their hips from side to side. “And speaking of which, I had not a single dance partner tonight,” he said plaintively, and Mani shook his head, slipping easily into the well-worn conversation. 

He replied, “I cannot dance with you- there is no music. Is it not the way of your people to dance to music with many couples in the room?” 

Fronsac swiftly retorted, “And is it not the way of your people to dance as the spirit moves them?” With their clasped hands he nudged Mani into a twirl to bring him into his arms. He led them into a slow, sloppy Minuet, humming nonsense on and off, and Mani could not help the laugh that overtook his earlier melancholy, pulled along by Fronsac’s whimsy.

Yet something of his earlier mental wanderings still weighed on him, so as they slowly spun he noted, “Your collection of specimens was incomplete tonight.” 

A puff of incredulity escaped from Fronsac’s lips in the middle of his hummed melody and he shook his head in good humor. “You, a part of my collection? What fools, indeed to believe that. It is our very best joke at their expense.” Pulling them flush against each other, nearly tripping in the steps of the dance, now slowed beyond all recognition, Fronsac whispered in his ear, “Besides, you are far too precious a treasure for the likes of me to collect.”

Mani pulled back slightly to look Fronsac straight on when he reminded them both of the truth which simultaneously trapped and liberated him. “And yet, I am yours,” he said solemnly, and Fronsac shivered under the weight of it before leaning in to press their lips together and begin pulling them toward the bedroom.

Once inside, despite the seriousness of Mani’s pronouncement, Fronsac’s levity reasserted itself, as he swiftly stripped Mani then playfully shoved him back across their bed. Still humming off-key he bounced on his toes to the beats while lighting the bedside candles and then shedding layers in a silly, dramatic shower of fabric which soon covered the room. Mani snickered and held out his hand, beckoning Fronsac back to him.

As Fronsac approached he untied his hair ribbon with great ceremony, dangling the little strip of silk in front of him with a smirk. Sliding onto the bed to straddle Mani’s hips he trailed the soft ribbon up the ladder of Mani’s stomach and ribs, across his neck, and up to play at the seam of his lips, the arch of his brows, the crest of his cheekbones. Mani closed his eyes and tipped his head back, welcoming the tickling caress across the vulnerable line of his throat. Fronsac laid the ribbon there in a shock of color against Mani’s smooth skin and quietly said, “Don’t let it fall?” lilting the words upward in question. Mani carefully nodded and let his hands drop from where they held Fronsac’s hips to lie palm up on the bed in acquiescence.

For long wordless moments Fronsac studied his face, gently running his thumbs over the path taken by the ribbon, then settling into a pattern of slow caresses across Mani’s brow and temples, soothing the path of the worries that had plagued him earlier that evening. Fronsac nodded in understanding and said, “We’ve been in town too long.” He bent down to kiss Mani’s temples, promising, “Soon we will return to the country house, so that you can take your trek into the woods for the solstice.” A great breath escaped from the depths of Mani’s chest, pushing out the anxiety trapped there in a sigh, and Fronsac shook his head ruefully. “I did not forget,” he chided, “but next year, tell me when you feel the pull. You know I’ll follow you anywhere.” Mani parted his lips to protest or apologize or give his thanks - he knew not which - but Fronsac smothered the words in a kiss. As their tongues met and a glow bloomed inside of him where only damp weight gripped him for too long, Mani accepted that he owed no apology, required no explanation; enough words had been said, so he kissed back hungrily and thrust his hips to return Fronsac to the matter at hand. 

Fronsac murmured his agreement before drawing his hands down then back up Mani’s sides to come to rest at his nipples where he playfully pinched and soothed in turns as he began to circle his hips. Mani arched and trembled, so Fronsac pulled back and made a silly little tsk, then leaned back down to lap at Mani’s pulse and nuzzle the ribbon still stretched across Mani’s throat. “Remember,” he said with mock gravity, then lowered his mouth to Mani’s chest to renew his efforts. Mani’s fingers flexed and twisted in the linens where his hands still lay on the bed, as if the pleasure overflowing inside of him sought to escape the boundaries of his flesh.

Lost in a haze, Mani gasped to realize that Fronsac had straightened and moaned because he had already retrieved the oil and worked a finger inside of himself. His hands jerked and his hips moved in a sublimation of the need to reach out and join Fronsac’s thrusting fingers, to hold him and feel the tense muscles of his abdomen and the little shudders of pleasure that played along his sides as his lover stretched himself open. “Grégoire,” he pleaded, and Fronsac moaned again, throwing his head back in abandon. “Let me,” Fronsac gasped, “I want to show you,” and with that he sank down upon him, and Mani only barely kept his promise under the onslaught of heat.

Above him Fronsac slowly began to move. As he thrust himself down the candlelight bathed the thick expanse of his strong thighs, and flickered over the ecstatic contortions that played upon his face. His thick flaxen hair swayed in waves at his shoulders and the blue of his eyes had retreated, leaving him vacant, in service only to the waves of pleasure rolling between them. Mani broke with a cry, reaching up to peel the ribbon away while bracing his feet and curving his torso up to rest on one forearm. He lifted his other hand toward Fronsac’s face and evaded his attempts to pull the outstretched finger into a mouth already full of triumphant laughter. Instead Mani drew a tickling path down his hair line to tuck the golden strands behind the shell of Fronsac’s ear, then cut off the chuckle with a sharp thrust upward. Fronsac’s breath caught and they stilled for a moment, gazes locked, breathing in time as their flesh said what their words often could not.

Yet too soon the thirsts of the body drew them back to frantic movement as they thrust together in a headlong surge toward completion. Leaning low and weaving their fingers together, Fronsac sought Mani’s mouth in a desperate bid to connect everywhere, all at once. Fronsac shouted nonsense and his body rippled like water when he came, while Mani stroked his back and continued to move within him until he too gasped his pleasure into Fronsac’s lazy kiss.

Slipping to their sides Mani pillowed Fronsac’s head on his shoulder and stroked the smiling curves of his lips. Fronsac sighed, replete. He mused, “I do wish you had been there tonight. Drawing rooms seem hollow without you.”

Mani paused for a moment, then continued his caress down the long lines of Fronsac’s strong arms. “I'm sure you still had a receptive audience,” he offered.

Fronsac protested, “Ah, but what is the fun if the audience isn't in on the game? It was cold tonight without your gaze upon me. I love telling the furry fish story, knowing that we laugh the same laugh inside as everyone gasps and nods so seriously.” He pulled back slightly and drew a teasing touch to Mani’s naval, which he knew from long experience was the only place on Mani’s body which was reliably ticklish. As Mani writhed and chuckled he teased, “And I especially love catching you looking when I steal a kiss from an impressionable young lady in a dark corner, both of us knowing that kiss is for you. Your gaze is so dark with promise when our eyes meet over the shoulder of my dance partners and it heats me to the core.”

Finally trapping Fronsac’s tormenting hands, Mani challenged, “And do you know what silent words my eyes speak to you?”

“Of course,” Fronsac replied, steadfast and finally serious. Boldly, shamelessly he spoke the heavy words aloud, "Your eyes tell me only the truth: That I am precious," he bent to place a kiss upon Mani's palm then rest their joined hands over his heart, "because I am in your collection - I am yours."


End file.
